


The One With The Econ Paper

by Whispering_Sumire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Hopeful Ending, M/M, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Short & Sweet, Student/Teacher, mostly Crack!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 07:07:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14732241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whispering_Sumire/pseuds/Whispering_Sumire
Summary: Literally, and not so literally, what it says on the tin.





	The One With The Econ Paper

**Author's Note:**

> [TW Discord](https://discord.me/page/teenwolf) is a bad influence, lol

Stiles bounces onto the bed and spreads his legs wide with a smirk.

Finstock just looks at him, curious and wary in equal measure. Rolling his eyes, Stiles motions him to come forward (because, seriously, it takes two to tango). Once he has him where he wants him, slotted between his legs, waist closer to, well, _mouth_ level, he gets to work on unbuttoning and unzipping and drawing his still-soft cock out. It's pretty enough to eat, honestly, his mouth hasn't even watered this much over curly-fries.

"It is not fair to have a cock this pretty," he decides, and swallows him down before he can even respond. He feels a heady thrill at the shuddering moan this coaxes out of him, whirls his tongue and sucks, swallows silken pre-come and whimpers with pleasure around him when he tangles his hand in Stiles' hair.

He laves at him, bathes his hardened cock with spit and pre-come, envelops him with the warmth of his mouth.

"Stiles," he chokes out, thrusting minutely with a gasp, tugging on his hair to get him to back off. Stiles takes the hint with a bruised-lip smile, crawling back on the bed whilst simultaneously dispensing of his pants (multi-tasking, whoever knew it could be this useful?).

The smell of male in the air, and the look on Coach's face, it's pornographic, scorching, and he feels on fire when Finstock consumes his mouth in a filthy, wet kiss. Long, meaty fingers reaching down to circle his hole, he shivers when they breach, moans and gasps and writhes when they thrust in, a dry stretching burn. Too much, not enough.

"Lube," he croaks, with the last of his breath, and whines when Finstock pulls his fingers away, stifles hysterical giggles when the act of searching for said product blindly causes at least twelve cluttered things on the man's nightstand to topple over and crash to the floor.

"Shut up," he grumbles, cheeks a delightful pink, and Stiles kisses his pout away with a laugh.

"I hope nothing broke," he says, hushed with intimacy, rasped with lust, and Coach rolls his eyes before withdrawing from his search with a small bottle of strawberry pink lube. Stiles raises an eyebrow, and Coach turns a shade to match before opening the thing and dispensing the cool liquid directly onto his fluttering hole, making Stiles gasp and squirm, and forget about the hilarity altogether.

His fingers thrust, lancing in and out, causing a coil of heat to wind itself around Stiles, pull at him until he's taught, until he's begging, _"Please, please,"_ and, "More, Christ, Coach, _more_!"

"Greedy, greedy," Finstock murmurs, huffing in amusement though his eyes are blown with lust, and he's just as sweaty and hard and _yearning_ as Stiles is. Stiles says as much, or would if Coach weren't kissing him stupid, sliding his fingers out of Stiles' aching flower to replace them with his throbbing manhood.

Is it possible to relax eagerly? Because Stiles is sure that's what he's doing when Finstock lines up, sinks in, slow and careful and... not at all how Stiles wants it. With a grunt of impatience, he winds his legs around the man's hips, puts his hand on the globes of his ass, and turns the slow glide into a fucking _dive_.

He roars with the pleasure-pain of it, all of his muscles trembling, his body slick with sweat and his breath lost to him for a moment, until the man above him, caressing his cheek and groaning as he slides out a little, only to thrust back in, make Stiles whine, whispers _"Breathe."_

And then he surrenders, to the sensation, propelling him toward orgasm, his body becoming so tightly wound, zooming toward release like a fucking rocket.

"I'm-" he tries, shudders, moans and writhes- "coming!"

And Finstock groans, the snap of his hips stuttering, going faster, slamming into him and grinding against his prostate every other breath. With a cry Stiles erupts, arching up, his channel flexing against the intrusion as he explodes, milking Finstock's cock until the man is coming with him, moaning through his release against Stiles' shoulder.

* * *

There's more to it than just that one page of unhindered erotica, all of the smut involving the two of them, and about ten pages proceeding it on the study of [sexual verbiage in literature](http://anyabreton.com/2013/02/25/dynamic-verbs-for-sex-scenes/). Finstock honestly doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, and Stiles is standing in front of his desk glaring at the pages with a blush high on his cheeks like his own work offends him. Although, Finstock has to admit (though it pains him to do so) that the kid probably _did_ put a lot of work into this.

"This is Economics," he says, half exasperation, because he sometimes wonders if Stiles _forgets_ that.

"I know," the boy murmurs, and Finstock sighs.

"You know, Stilinski, if I could grade you on how profoundly you disturb me, you'd be an A-plus student."

"............ Thanks, Coach."

Stiles is still blushing, standing there, fidgeting, and Finstock decides to have some mercy. He sets the pages aside, and says, very softly, "If you still feel this way in ten years... come see me."

Ten years is a long time, by then he's sure this school-yard crush will be forgotten, especially considering how distractable the kid is. But, unexpectedly, upon hearing that, a _brilliant_ smile blooms across Stiles' face, and he rushes forward, kisses Finstock on the cheek before he can even put up a token protest, breathes, "Okay," and all but skips away.

Faintly Finstock wonders what the hell he just got himself into, but the cheer must be contagious, because, fuck it, he's smiling, too.


End file.
